


Blast, Une Douleur Aiguë, Ma Fille

by rebelantix



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon Gay Character, F/F, Liberal Canon, Major Character Injury, Possible Character Death, Severe swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelantix/pseuds/rebelantix
Summary: Her head snaps in the direction of a close gunshot and before she knows what she’s doing she’s blinking towards the target feverishly, her pulse pistols lying forgotten on the ground and fuck how could she let this happen?Why wasn’t she paying attention?





	1. all time low

**I was the knight in shining armour in your movie.**

Her head snaps in the direction of a nearby gunshot. Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s blinking towards the bullet's target feverishly, her pulse pistols clattering, forgotten on the ground, her arms pumping like a machine set to overdrive.  _ Fuck _ how could she let this happen? Why wasn’t she paying attention? She had made the resolution to  _ protect  _ her during these confrontations, and here she is, scrambling like a babe fresh from his pram, attempting to make up for time lost. The buildings zip by in a blur, she doesn’t catch the details of frozen civilian faces looking at her image-blips in  amazement and terror alike—she won’t take time to say “hiya!” No, not this time.

She can feel her eyes bulging out of their sockets and her heart hammering against her rib cage, trying to beat its way out of her chest to get away from this overwhelming anxiety. The chronal accelerator anchored to her abdomen grows searing with a white hot burn, one that makes her eyes flash in tandem with each blip she takes between time. The last exasperated blink comes and goes in milliseconds.

Lena forms a sturdy stance between the bullet and its target, setting her jaw to brace for the unbearable agony. She takes the chance to gape over her shoulder at Widow— _ no, _ to  _ Amélie  _ —and revels in this deciding moment. She knows she’s danced right over the border of life and death, this decision would  _ positively  _ land her in a lonely grave without her lover’s cuddles to warm her.  _ Nevermind that! Death is better than a life without your treasure, Lena! _

In the adventurer’s mind, was there a better way to go?

**Would put your lips on mine and love the aftertaste**

A soft brush of nails against her cheek in the brilliance of the full moon through the open window, a feather-light kiss dusting across the peak of her scrunched brow as she wakes from the blustery claws of sleep. Dulcet lips, cool to the touch and pleasurably full to the sight, pressing to hers in reassurance and comfort. The pilot encircles her arms around a slim waist, pulling Amélie closer to deepen their kiss.

_ "Hmm..."  _ The French woman purrs after a moment, pulling back just enough to allow her thumb pad access to Lena's bottom lip. "Your lip, Lena. It's damaged." Amélie frowns in worry as her nail traces on. Worry soon morphs a distasteful, vengeful expression, denoted by the folding corner of the assassin’s mouth . "Did this occur on your last outing?" Amélie brushes the tender, light rose patch of skin, causing the Brit to wince and grimace. There was no lying to the sharp-shooter, no way to tell her it was from a mission; maybe she’d accidentally miscalculated a blink and she shot into the side of the helicarrier?  _ How do you accidentally run into a helicarrier, Lena?  _ No, no way to get out of this.

"Aye, wouldn't worry 'bout it though, m’love. I made sure the bloke went home with a right smartin’ pair of black-eyes." Lena produces a sure, wily grin, wrapping her fingers around Amélie’s wrist to pull it away from her mouth and over her heart. “I’m sure it would heal real quick if you’d plant a kiss or two on me?”

The French woman falters, her lips held open with a question of  _ who  _ on her tongue, but she digresses, falling into the Brit with a kiss to shatter entire timelines.

**Now I’m a ghost, I call your name, you look right through me**

It hurts, the bite of the sniper’s bullet. The wrenching pull of time speeds up and slows again as the metal punches through the accelerator, and next, the soft flesh of her abdomen. She watches traces of her life fade in and out of her vision (the tomato red faces of her friends bent over and laughing, the very first time she strapped on the accelerator and blipped all over the station), feels herself flickering between existing and disappearing forever but she doesn’t  _ care.  _ Amélie is safe and that’s all she could ask for. Her angel is safe.

Safe.

**You’re the reason I’m alone and masturbate.**

It had been a long while since she’d experienced that sweet, dexterous touch. No matter how hard she tries, no matter her determination, she can’t achieve the same satisfaction alone as she does when she has her darling company, but that never deters her from trying, oh no. Within moments of stopping, her hand drifts down between her legs again.

**I… yeah I’ve been trying to fix my pride.**

She meets the stone, gleaming amber gaze that so often makes her heart stumble like a newborn fawn trying to walk, and she can barely manage a weak smile before skidding across the hard, scraping roof. A moment of stillness, broken stillness.

The Widow’s Kiss drops six stories to the ground below with a snarling cry from its keeper.

**But that shit’s broken… That shit’s broken.**

Thin yet firm arms gather her up into a protective embrace and she finds disbelief in those once cruel irises, along with little flickering strikes of pain and grief. “ _ Non, non, non, Lena, Lena! Don’t go, ne allez pas, ne me quitte pas, Lena…" _

**Lie! Lie, L-Lie, I try to hide, but now you know it.**

“M’okay love, don’t worry about it—just a scratch, hey?” She whispers hoarsely, tasting thick iron rising from the back of her throat, sensing the liquid streaming from the corner of her mouth. Off in the distance she hears the maniacal roar of a fond friend, spilling with burning rage and genuine promises of revenge.

**That I’m at an all time…**

“Won’t be long before they get ‘ere, Amé—.” Lena musters in a hushed tone, choking back the bout of coughing she can feel creeping in her chest. She raises a frail hand to the woman’s cheek and brushes a tear away from her eye, giving a small smile.

**Low, low, low low low, low low, low low**

“I won’t leave you,  _ mon amour  _ . I’ll break them if I have to, with my bare hands, I won’t lose you. I won’t leave you.” Amélie murmurs, tearing her visor from her head and throwing it to the side. She leans down to assess the damage done by the bullet, focusing only on the wound seeping blood through her jacket, tainting the jagged edges of her broken accelerator. She’s completely disregarding the clamor of Lena’s teammates on their way to the scene, much to the pilot’s despair.

**I… was the “prototype” like 3 Stacks on that CD.**

She cranks the tuning knob of the silver stereo, fiddling until she finds the most fitting tune for the moment. A tame beat, reminiscent of the psychedelic age, flows through the speakers. Lena spins the volume node, and suddenly she doesn’t feel so nervous with the bass bouncing around her chest.

Her heart stills with a glance cast towards the ethereal beauty lying on her mattress, cloaked in the morning’s glow and wrapped in snow white sheets.

**An example of the perfect candidate**

The blue tint of Amélie’s skin is always enough to scare any man or woman away, whether they found her attractive or not; Lena didn’t blame them. She seemed a murderous, calculative ghost in the night and sometimes in the glaring light of midday, but here, in Lena’s small flat, she is a goddess. The raven black of her hair catches the early sun’s rays, appears to swallow the light, and the pilot finds herself striding towards the mattress with unanticipated intent.

**Now all your girlfriends say that you don’t want to see me**

She sinks to the floor, the echo of her phone shattering against the wall ringing through her home. Relentlessly she scrubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, muffling her sobs with mild cusses. Alas, it wasn’t enough, and neither was she.

**You’re the reason that I just can’t concentrate**

That wouldn’t be the last time she blinked into a brick wall, Lena would come to find. She wouldn’t admit to her team members that she was thinking of the way her name rolls off of her love’s tongue while being pelted with bombs, or how she looks with her hair down when she was in a chokehold. No, she definitely wasn’t thinking of that shite.

**I, Oh I’ve been trying to fix my pride**

Darkness begins to grip her vision, Amélie flashes from caring lover to deadly killer and the time of day switches incessantly from the dead of night to present day. She swears she feels the sharp graze of a blade against her throat but too often it becomes Amélie’s nails checking her pulse. Lena isn’t sure if she can hold on to consciousness any longer.

**But that shit’s broken, that shit’s broken**

She relishes in the sensation of Amélie’s hands on her face, for she doesn’t know if she’s ever going to feel them again or hell, even see the gentle curve of the French woman’s cheek when she grins,  _ God just let me into Glory Greatest already, you fucking tosser _

**Lie! Lie, L-Lie, I try to hide**

“Stand up with your hands in the air! Don’t try anything clever, Widowmaker!” Jack’s order sounds so bloody  _ harsh  _ in Lena’s ears, but she can’t tell him to belt up over the blood in her mouth. “Lena!  _ Yallailhawl!  _ ” is the next cry, coming from the seasoned Amari sniper. She senses the anguish, the unbridled madness her team emits, and she’s powerless to stand between the two things she cares most about.

**But now you know it**

“ _ Brûle en l’enfer!  _ ” Amélie counters sharply, tightening her grip on Lena’s coat sleeve in one hand whilst groping for the smaller gun strapped onto her thigh with the other. Lena forces an objection, but as she parts her lips, she emits a forceful cough, spattering vital fluid against her protector’s visage. In any situation, she would feel embarrassed, but now, she only suffers.

**That I’m at an all time**

Her vision is now something of a pinpoint, arguing voices sound far off and confrontational, and while she wants to help, the majority of her mind lulls her into sleep. A sleep she knows she won’t wake up from, but a sleep nonetheless.

**Low, low, low low low, low low, low low**

The last words she catches are Amélie’s promise of love and that she will return. the last feeling is the gravel rooftop she’s left upon, the cold of the Widow’s skin no longer present.

At last, she rests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this made me sad. 
> 
> Note that this work will be covering a vast majority of ships, some poly, some monogamous, some gay some not. 
> 
> The title of the work is a mix of British slang and a French phrase, roughly translating to "Blast, a sharp pain, my girl."
> 
> As always, stay tuned and thanks for reading~


	2. ne me quitte pas, mon chou

In Amélie’s arms, surrounded by the postered walls of her bedroom, Lena is never more happy. The woman runs her long fingers through the short, flattened tresses of Lena’s hair, gazing out the window and staring deep into the crystal slate of rainfall.  _ “Ne me quitte pas… Il faut oublier… Tout peut s’oublier… Qui s'enfuit déjà, oublier le temps, des malentendus et le temps perdu...” _

Lena noses into her lover’s palm when it dips down, seeking to stroke her cheek; she barely catches Amélie’s subdued smile from the edge of her sight. “You sound so… hauntin’, love. Quite hauntin’.”

“I will stop,  _ ma fille.  _ I do not wish to frighten you.” Amélie mumbles, leaning back against the headboard, delicate hands falling still. She watches the people across the street, closing their shutters and bringing in laundry from the unrelenting downpour, with a placid and unreadable expression. “I don’t want you to stop. I was just makin’ a comment… Your voice is actually very tip-top. I wish you would sing to me more often.” Lena chirped, reaching up a hand to softly touch Amélie’s nose. “But if you do so stop, perhaps you can bring your lovely lips down here?”

_ “Lena! I won’t let them take you away from me, I’ll break them! Wake up, Lena!” _

Her vision is blurry but she can identify the outline of the good doctor above her with a few faceless orderlies. The squeaking of wheels, the rushing, the warmth she feels surrounding her, the white ceiling and bright, stinging lights that come and go, suggest she’s heading down a hallway on a gurney. Her head lobs to the side with each turn they whirl around. The party bursts through a door, the gurney stills. Lena winces at the light gouging at her pupils, then she feels a sting in her left arm. Muddled languages weave together in an odd cocktail that makes Lena’s head burn with confusion. She feels a large, rough hand touch her forehead, and sees a dark shape consume the top half of her sight.  _ “Don’t worry Lena, this will be fixed.” _

Lena grunts and forms a shred of a smile, before she dives back into the throes of unconsciousness.

_ “A savoir comment oublier ces heures, qui tuaient parfois a coups de pourquoi, le cœur du bonheur. Ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas…” _ Amélie continues, swinging her legs out from under Lena’s head to rise. She walks towards the window, now studying the raindrops hitting the pane, crossing her arms as if she were cold. Lena sits up on one elbow to watch the French woman, the cinch of the space between her eyebrows portraying her concern. There was something off about Amélie, an aura Lena couldn’t quite name but sure as shite didn’t like.

_ “Moi je t'offrirai des perles de pluie, venues de pays où il ne pleut pas. Je creuserai la terre jusqu'après ma mort, pour couvrir ton corps d'or et de lumière.”  _ Amélie’s voice catches abruptly as she raises a hand to cover her mouth, her head tilting down to look at the dark floorboards beneath her toes. Lena hastily arrives at her love’s side, aiming to engulf her with a snuggly hug. Amélie turns before she has the chance and traps her wrists where they hover. Her face is completely impassive, except for the tears brimming on the apex of her cheeks. Lena's breathing shallows.

_ “Je ferai un domaine, où l'amour sera roi, où l'amour sera loi, où tu seras reine. Ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas.”  _ Amélie’s grip on the Brit’s wrists hurts more with each second that passes, but Lena dithers to respond physically. “I won’t.”

She tugs herself out of Amélie’s death-like vice, and winds her arms around the taller woman’s hips. “I won’t. I promise.”

She opens her eyes a thin sliver, pleased with the low light of the room she resides in. Her vision is still warped and fuzzy, but she can barely make out the three blobs keeping her company. The one nearest to the door she guesses is Jesse, according to the stink of sour cigar smoke and the angular shape of his outline. The one nearest to her, shoulders wider than the doorframe and nearly twice as tall as she, she undoubtedly knows as Reinhardt. The one between the two is slim, in dull orange attire. Lena’s heart quickens, but her body remains unresponsive and her sight refuses to focus.

“Yer time’s dwindlin’, Widowmaker. Better finish up here, ‘though I dunno why’d ya’d want to see the person y’attempted to finish off.” Jesse spits, making toward the door. Reinhardt takes a few (tried for) quiet steps to the edge of Lena’s cot. He raises a large hand to clear a strand of hair away from her eyes, before grimly patting her cheek.  _ “Justice will be done, child.” _

Amélie breaks in Lena’s arms, nearly toppling the small Brit over, but she steels her arms around her love and determines that she will _ not  _ let her go.

Over the course of their relationship, Lena has learned that Amélie does not sob. She does not release her anguish by way of healthy bawling.

Amélie allows the tears to fall soundlessly, seamlessly. She does not let her body shake in sorrow. And that is what frightens Lena Oxton.

Backing onto the bed once more, Lena wraps Amélie’s legs around her hips and begins to make intricate patterns on her girlfriend’s lower back with her fingertips. Amélie clings to the Brit, her hands curling into the loose-fit shirt covering her torso. Her tears are hidden away in the stretch of Lena's neck and shoulders, warm wetness streaming down onto pale, freckled collarbones.

Brief seconds of still agitation pass by the pair unnoticed. When Amélie straightens up, Lena shoots her a timid beam, wiping away her tears with a rumpled sheet close at hand. She studies the faint lines of the assassin’s expression, catching on the ones that show evidence of her rare grins. The pilot raises a solitary finger to run along the curve of Amélie’s jaw and permits it to continue down the expanse of her throat, to the gaunt lines of her chest. “They don’t know about us yet, Amé. They won’t.”

“With respect,  _ mon chou,  _ you  don’t know that they will.” Amélie brings her forehead to rest against Lena’s, her eyes closing and her brow knitting together. “Is it so bad to have hope?”

“Talon tore the hope from my soul when they turned me into… this creature.”

“I can,  _ I will,  _ bring it back.”

Amélie startles, her eyes flashing open at her girlfriend’s sudden hardness of voice. Lena gets her point across in a bubbly tone and bouncy, delightful movements. This change is... comfortably shocking.

_ “Her condition is stable enough to support her vital systems while dormant, she should be able to wake soon.” _

Lena does wake, fatigued and nauseous, but awake. The pain in her abdomen is pulsing, but dully so, wrapped in padded gauze and carefully dressed bandages. She raises her hands to her eyes and feebly rubs them, clearing the rest of the dreamy film from her vision. The room is windowless, with only a soft hued lamp to illuminate the space. The good doctor sits in a charcoal Kebo chair in the corner, holding a steaming mug in her hands, clothed in her medical scrubs and coat. She grants Lena a cozy, motherly smile before standing and approaching. “Sit up, Miss Oxton.”

Even with assistance, it takes Lena more time to rise than it does for the doctor’s Swiss milk to cool. When Angela takes notice of this predicament, she places a pillow behind the pilot’s back and ushers her to focus on her breathing while she makes a new cup. A brief second after the medic leaves, the atmosphere still as a uniformed, regal soldier steps in. “Didn’t think you’d come to see me, Chief Amari.”

“Doctor Ziegler appointed me to watch over your residence, in case of trouble. I have been stationed outside of this room since your admission.”

Lena frowns at the soldier’s formality, but she nods. “You’ve always been a soldier before a friend.”

Fareeha’s expression softens in the slightest, hardly noticeable, and the Brit catches the slight droop of her shoulders. “I wasn’t the administration’s first choice, Lena.”

At the sound of footsteps, the Amari woman tenses and falls into the position of attention just as Angela reappears. The doctor takes care in everything she does, even in passing the mug to Lena, she observes. With one thing handled, Ziegler turns to face the unmoving Fareeha, clapping her hands together to press on to the next line of business. “Chief Amari, if you may, I must speak with you about something. If you would accompany me, another guard will take your post.”

The Egyptian shoots Angela a look of sternness, and diligently remains in her place.

With a small curse, she takes a hold of Fareeha’s shoulder, bringing her in close, facing away from Lena. The pilot pays no mind to the secretive talk, taking a sip of the warm mug of milk, enjoying the taste for but a moment. She couldn’t quite comprehend how parched she truly was until she’d taken a single drink... she finishes the cup in seconds.

Setting the glass down on the small table at her bedside, Lena focuses on the women by the door. She wipes off her milkstache, and sniffles, before piping up.

“I want to see Winston.”

Angela turns her head to look at her injured comrade, before glancing to Fareeha. With no response, she pivots to fully face Lena.

“Winston is busy repairing your chronal accelerator, dear. We will send him in when he has a moment.”

“How am I not flickerin’ between timelines?”

“We were able to quickly engineer a hybrid of Commander Morrison’s biotic field technology and what could be salvaged from the initial accelerator. As long as you stay in this room until Winston is finished constructing the improved version, you will remain anchored to this chronal existence.”

Lena blinks, staring at the doctor, and then at Fareeha. “So I can’t leave?”

Angela bites the inside of her cheek visibly, although her expression relays slight confusion, and the chief averts her eyes elsewhere. “No, Lena, not quite.”

_ Justice will be done, child.  _ Reinhardt’s words reverberate in her skull. She buries her face in her hands to avoid throwing the mug at the medic. Before the tears begin to flow, Lena whispers, “How far along is the process?”

“He began two weeks ago about a day, give or take, after your injury, I do believe,” Angela confirms this with a nod from Fareeha, and a smile comes to her lips. “He says it should not take much longer, a few days or so, yes.”

“Bloody hell,  _ two weeks?  _ Why didn’t you send a bloke in here to wake me?” Lena shouts in disbelief, squeezing her fists together and levelling her glare on the two. “Lena, your status wasn’t sta-”

“I don’t  _ effin’  _ give a rat’s arse about my status!” She spits back. Internally, she remembers the foggy memory of Amélie in captive’s fatigues, her heart kicking up its pace in worry and terror. The wound in her torso makes her lurch over in agony, the grit of her teeth the only thing keeping her from screaming. “Lena, please calm down!” The doctor demands, her eyes betraying her feeling of increasing panic. “Like hell I will!” Lena creeches, digging her teeth into the flesh of her lip. Her heart beats against her chest, she watches crimson seep through the neatly wrapped bandages, and she begins to feel faint. Her head is spinning and the room is whirling, Angela is rushing to her side and the chief is shouting orders out the door.

“Amélie,” Lena chokes out, resisting Angela's urges to lie her down with frail pushes. The good doctor gives her a sad smile.

_ “Please don’t hurt h-” _

The words fall on deaf ears as a needle finds its mark, bidding the pilot a dreamless  _ good night. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow that was gay
> 
> told you i wouldn't leave it hanging!
> 
> The song is "Ne Me Quitte Pas" originally performed by French artist Jacques Brel - I listened to Celine Dion's rendition of it to further help me visualize Widowmaker.
> 
> Also, if anyone wants to help me out with some Essex-British slang so I can better characterize Lena, that would be awesome. I'm trying to be as culturally accurate as I can.
> 
> As always, stay tuned and thanks for reading~


	3. what have you done to her?

Lena waits. 

She waits in mute protest for what feels like days in her high-class prison cell (as Lena affectionately calls her room), rejecting food, spurning the thought of drink. She lies on her side facing away from the door, her teeth burrowed into her knuckles to prevent her from speaking even a whisper. Her stomach aches with the hollowness of hunger, her throat rubbing against itself like coarse sandpaper when she swallows. Her skin has grown clammy with a constant coat of sweat, her hair hanging limp and unkempt with grease. And while Lena is miserable and desperately wants to consent to a bath, new bandages, and a warm meal, she continues to choke on her pride and convince herself that she is doing this for Amélie. 

The good doctor enters the room , denoted by the sound of her light footsteps. Winston and his heavy handfalls lurch in after her. They exchange muttered shreds of words that only somewhat reach Lena’s ears—she doesn’t care. Angela has made this attempt before, trying to coerce her into speaking, into eating, into letting her redress her wound. The Swiss woman will try it all on Lena, but the stubborn Brit will continue to have none of it. Not even if Winston is in the picture.

Winston clears his throat to prep his voice, capturing Lena’s attention away from her deepening thoughts. “Lena? If you could roll over, I would like to talk with you.”

She remains immobile, looking at the small paint bubbles left in the wall. The ape comes closer. “If you don’t want to speak, it would be very beneficial to me, erm, us, if you could write.”

_ Write? What is he on about? _

Lena doesn’t notice her eyebrows furrowing in an external question until Winston chuckles. “I’ve got a notepad and pencil here for you, if you’d just answer our questions.”

Lena hears the smile in Winston’s voice. She terribly wants to put graphite to parchment, to scribble out lewd images and see the wavy lines of her cursive. She wants to shout and scream and laugh and wear out her voice until she truly  _ can’t  _ speak, but she has a cause and this is a matter in which she cannot make mistakes. 

After a few moments of silence and Lena’s lack of response, Angela groans almost inaudibly. “ _ Mich kreuzigen,  _ Lena.” 

The pilot squeezes her fists together and prepares for the medic’s frustrated verbal assault. She flinches at the silken fingertips alighting on the back of her neck, hiking up her shoulders to her ears for fear of a pinch. Rather than bawling at her, the heavenly health-bringer runs her fingers through Lena’s right beastly shock of hair, disregarding the filth clinging to her skull. “At least state your demands,  _ schnuckeli.  _ As intelligent as we are, we cannot read your mind.”

Lena keeps her muscles taut, waiting for Angela’s stroking fingers to retreat back to her side before steadily sitting herself up. She avoids their eyes, but holds her hands out for the notepad and pencil. 

“Thank you, Lena.” The merciful medic says excitedly, holding pale hands against the space over her heart. The Brit catches the sparkle in her eyes from the corner of her own, and turns her face away. She isn’t doing this for herself, and if Angela knew the reason, she would surely lock her in here until she went off her trolley. Winston hands her the pad of paper.

Quickly, unsteadily, she begins to write. She places a number before each provision and scratches out something close to sane.

Angela departs to draw a bath and fetch water for the grubby Brit, nearly skipping once she’s out the door. Winston sits on his haunches, casually, yet offhandedly, watching Lena write.

A little under five minutes, and she sets the pencil down on the waiting table. She straightens up, turning herself to let her legs hang off of the cot, and works what little moisture is left in her body into her aching throat. 

“I consent to be put under the care of Angela Ziegler, if an’ only if my demands, listed below, are met.” Lena’s voice sounds rutty and ill when it first rises from her chest, but she refuses to stop. A life is riding on this. A life more important to her than her own.

“One. I will be able to see Amélie Lacroix as soon as I can to stand n’ walk. Two, see to it that she’s not a bit near stroppy at any time. Give her the best, even if I’m gettin’ the worst. Three. None of you will harm her. Ever. At any time. For whatever reason. Four. No more of that sleepy liquid shite your orderly chavs stick into my veins to put me to sleep.”

Angela is in the room now, holding an orange, fluffy towel, a smile still playing on her lips. Winston remains still, his eyes focused on the paper Lena holds in her trembling hands.

“Five,” Lena breathes, closing her eyes firmly. “Amélie Lacroix will be released from custody as soon as I am checked out of treatment.”

The Swiss woman drops the towel and clutches the water bottle so tightly the lid near pops off, her expression disbelieving and shocked. Her hands stay frozen in the air, and the ape beside her is holding his breath with his fingers digging into the carpet below him. 

“If these requests are not met, an’ I suss out that you’ve been tricking me, if I find bruises on her skin or terror in her head,” Lena had to draw in a deep gulp of air for this next bit, but that didn’t make it any easier to force from her maw.

“I will resign from Overwatch, and join those nesh bastards of Talon at my next convenience.”

The trio are frozen in tension. 

The Brit keeps her eyes fixed on Winston’s yellow irises, laboring on keeping an unyielding air about herself. At the last moment, she flicks her gaze to Angela.

He is the first to break the bleeding, disturbed quiet.

“I believe we will be able to accommodate your conditions, Lena.” Her eyes line again with his, and he retorts with a comforting, sharp-toothed grin. The gorilla inclines his head to the doctor; Lena convinces herself she’s imagined the tear streaming down the pristine, pale cheek. Angela nods surely and responds to Winston’s smile with a meek one of her own. “ _ Ja _ , my dear, I am sure we will figure something out.” She has a hesitant gander at the door—a brief, split-second glance, Lena swears she breathes in sharply—before she resumes the mask of the immaculate medic.

“Chief Amari will carry the Chronofield from your room to the showers, so there is no need to worry about travelling outside of range. Let us be on, then?”

She lifts the towel from the ground and ambles toward the cot, allowing Lena to inhale the contents of the water bottle, before holding out her arm for Lena to grasp. It takes a dash over a minute for the Brit to uneasily brace herself on her own two feet (she sure as hell couldn’t be arsed to accomplish the task unaided), and even more so when they begin a slow promenade towards the washroom. However, once her legs began to work, Lena found herself pulling to get ahead of the good doctor and her primal friend. 

 

-~-~-

 

_ “Wake up, my friend, we only have so much time.” _

Her head is jostled lightly, a large finger flicking against her nose. Annoyed, Lena raises a knuckle to her eyes to clear away the blur of sleep, trying to identify the perpetrator. “What’s th’fuss about now? Want to change m’bandages? Ruther a rude way of doinnit...”

A deep rise of slight laughter rises in the darkness before Lena. “No, dear comrade, I’ve come to… erh, you will see.”

She gives a weary sniff in response, but nods in the direction of the genius primate. Excitement bubbles low in her torso, just below the blunt pain of her wound. A tree trunk of an arm slides under her, pulling her close to the broad expanse of his chest. Winston cradles Lena as a mother would her newborn; the pilot, for once during this whole ordeal, feels secure. Her transport carries her through the door, and she finds herself scratching at his skin to get back into her room.

“You  _ damn  _ well know more than any bloke here that I’m not supposed to leave that  _ bloody  _ cage.” She hisses, pinching his skin to get him to slow.

“I’ve finished the Mark II, Lena, you needn’t worry. I’ve got it close at hand. I had to keep the news of its completion hidden away, it has been waiting for its owner for… about two days, I want to say.”

“Why keep that from me, you great oaf?” Lena barks, thumping her fist against the ape’s chest. She regrets it soon afterward with an aching hand, as they move slowly through the hallway.

“If you would just let me explain, Lena. The higher ranks are discussing what to make of the situation we presently face. Only three of you know the full story of the encounter. The assassin, the target, and the independent variable; in other words, you. The quicker you learned about the Mark II, you would be scrambling out of the bed to get your hands on it and to Wid-”

“ _ Amélie _ , Winston.”

“Yes, _ Amélie _ , pardon. The fact of the matter is, you would not have given yourself time to heal and a chance to think about every outcome of your decisions from here on out.” The primate coughs into his free elbow to renew his voice. In the hand held above her, she catches a glittering, gently-hued blue luminance. She grits her teeth to keep from snarling viciously at her teammate.

“I hypothesize that you would bolt to her holding chamber and admit to anything they pressed you to, fact or fraud, whether or not you meant to consciously. You are known to be a very emotionally-minded individual, Lena Oxton. You don’t hesitate to fight for absolute goodness, but the administration has a habit of spinning lies… Do you understand?”

Lena bites the inside of her cheek, but nods; she can’t deny what he’s telling her. After all these years, Winston can read the British-born like a scientific textbook.

“Bear with me until you are healed enough to be rehabilitated using your new equipment, and then we will begin to discuss our plan of action. Wido-  _ Amélie  _ will be fine, as long as you do not speak an unguided word to our superiors.”

She makes a noise of affirmation, though she crosses her arms in disdain. Who knows how long her body will take to heal, even with Angela’s knowledge and skill in medicine. If she took Winston’s word for it, if the French woman was truly alright as long as she didn’t speak, didn’t  _ fight,  _ then she needed to lay down her arms before she made a bad shot. 

Realization covers her mind like a wave over a beach.

“What did you do to Fareeha?”

Winston stumbles, nearly depositing Lena on the chilled tile floor if not for her swift snatching the hair of his arms. She hears his teeth click together to answer the sore feeling.

“I did nothing. Angela, on the other hand…”

Lena senses the air become bashful. If she could see his skin under the dark hair, under this low hallway lighting, he would surely be blushing. 

“ _ Blast it all _ , I asked too much.”

Lena stays quiet for the rest of the walk, hardly noticing the turns Winston takes and the doors he gains clearance through. She’s almost sleeping again when he stops. She opens her eyes.

They stand in a small room with multiple screens covering the far wall, each connected to a camera stationed inside an individual containment chamber. Many are empty, from what Lena observes. She guides her attention to the wall directly opposite of her, and finds a massive wall that reflects the static glow of the computer screens.

She briskly realizes that the wall is one-way glass. As in, the kind usually found in  penitentiaries, separating a watcher from the prisoner held inside the enclosure. Her eyes fall upon the withheld subject.

She’s curled into a tight ball, dark black and purple bruises painting detriment against lavender-toned skin. Her fingernails dig into the flesh of her arms; the injured time-jumper watches her darling convulse, as if feeling the freezing temperature of her body for the first time. Her aura is weak, tired,  _ lonely,  _ and the pilot can do nothing in her current state.

_ Fuck that! _

Lena thrashes to get out of her friend’s arms, clawing at his skin to drive his grip away.

Her grunts and growls go unheard as Winston tightens his embrace around her, sitting back on his haunches to hold her against his stomach. “Lena, enough.”

“Even before I made my demands you  _ blimey  _ fucks didn’t give her a ruddy cot to sleep on, look at those welts! What have you done to her? My girl, don’t you worry, I’ll be on my feet in two shakes of a lamb’s tail and I’ll  _ burn  _ them, just watch, just wai-”

“Lena.”

She bites the inside of her cheek at his voice, becoming limp, panting profusely. The pilot swallows the ball of cotton growing in her throat, ignores the burning feeling at her eyes as she clenches her fists, holding back every voice that screams at her to cuff the primate square in his chops.

“I cannot explain her current state, Lena, the thought of it gives me a splitting headache, but I  _ promise  _ you. I will grant her access to adequate facilities tomorrow morning, at the latest, tomorrow afternoon.”

All she hears is her own labored breathing, the slight sting of her nails digging into her palms the only thing keeping her close to sanity. 

“The next time I see her, whether through a pane or not, she  _ best  _ not have a single  _ fuckin’ _ mark anywhere on her body.” 

Lena smirks in the darkness after Winston’s faint sigh of understanding.

_ She best not have a mark on her body, unless they were given out of passion. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooooooooo what's up friendos I finally finished the third chapter, the fourth is on her way once I regain my muse and get out of Las Vegas.
> 
> This is where I start to take liberties with canon; as in, I will form my own inventions and OW facilities to make my story a bit more... should I say, relevant and supportive of the fic? Yes, good. Also, it's important to note that while I do feature some ships in this fic, I will feature others in other works. I ship all, no ship is better than the rest. thank you.
> 
> anyway stay tuned and thanks for reading~


	4. i'll show you mine

It seemed… weeks. Weeks until she had gained enough strength to perform close to her peak once again. Winston hadn’t shown his stupid mug in  _ ages, _ Angela herself was scarce, it had been so long since she’d seen someone familiar—and while her physical pain had nearly subsided, the mental scars were just beginning to show. Night terrors tore her mind with each blink of a weary eye. There was no  _ good doctor  _ that came to take it away this time. Only medicines and capsules, the ones the medics tried to force down her throat. She’d bitten them as a warning, broke a boy’s bone she had, and she’d right do it again if they stuck their gnarled fingers between her teeth again. 

Lena occupies her time staring at the ceiling, memorizing the texture of the paint in an attempt to keep her mind from wandering. She can’t leave. How many times has she tried the door? How many times has she belted curses and oaths to the voices outside?

How many times have they ignored her, kept her isolated?

_ Too many. _

Lena finds her lips curling into a spiteful, wry smile. Her hands shake against the icy linoleum floor. Her fingers have grown numb from the close contact, but she can’t find a single shred of a fuck to give. Different thoughts swirl around her brain like wisps of Amélie’s hair curling in her fingers, never the same strand twice, always silken, always  _ deadly _ . 

She makes out a tired face through the unfocused lens of her gaze, and defaults to focusing on this new subject. Pale skin, exaggerated wrinkles that weren’t there before, blue eyes shadowed by the graying skin highlighting the curve of full cheeks. 

“Lena,” Angela says, a slight crinkle forming between her brows and lines stressing her forehead in concern. 

“Nice of you to show your face ‘gain,  _ love.” _ The Brit spits venomously, narrowing her eyes in an effort to hide the hurt beneath. “Come to tell me of s’more bullshit treatments?”

A submissive wince.

The atmosphere becomes a combination of pain and defense, Lena cackles on the inside. Angela’s falling in on herself does little to steer the Brit off her brutal course of action. 

“An-  _ Doctor Ziegler _ is performing to the best of her ability, Lena.” 

The pilot starts, sitting up with her eyes wide and alert to search for the steeled voice. Fareeha leans against the wall, golden hawk-like eyes searing holes into the Brit, coupled with an impassive expression. Impassive at first glance, that is. 

Upon closer inspection, Lena finds a corybantic storm swirling around the captivating shimmer of the Egyptian’s irises. A tempest that has found every reason to barrel towards the pilot at full-force given any provocation. Lena susses out that she’s taken a grave step into territory she had no wish to tread upon.

Lena scoots away from the Amari until her back hits the wall farthest from the door, and she draws her knees to her chest. Her gaze wavers between the two, picking apart their demeanors, for their auras are… _ off. _ Angela is acting extremely unlike herself, pushed to her limits and  _ weak  _ to an extent. The medic is normally so cheerful, and if not, she’s usually really good at hiding her grief. Today, she is tired. Frail.

The chief is on edge as well, that isn’t hard to discern, but her posture changes frequently now that Lena observes her carefully. She switches from pressing her shoulders back into the wall and shifting forward onto the balls of her feet, as if she’s ready to leap into the air. She casts her eyes away from the doctor, yet she can’t keep them from wandering back again. The more she watches, the more components come together to form a larger picture. “What do you want?”

Her own voice, the lick of betrayal at this new realization, makes her anxious. She’s always suspected, especially after that little scene with Winston... Never confirmed. 

Angela’s brow furrows, a hand draws itself to cover her lips. She looks at the ground, the tips of the worn shoes covering her feet. All the pilot hears is a shaky breath before the medic cracks through the quiet.

“What happened, Lena? Why did you cover her? Why do you want to protect her?”

Lena pulls her head up to gawk in disbelief at Angela, met with a burning pair of dull blue eyes. To her surprise she seems… full of empathy, and care.

The trio remain still in the quiet for a while as Lena picks over her words. Once she’s assembled a coherent thought, she straightens up against the wall and huffs a deep sigh. She wasn’t getting out of this without some information for herself.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Angela. I’m fair and certain that y’ve sifted through my share of dirty knickers, what if I want something in return.”

“Winston told me the bare minimum, if that is what you are referring to,  _ mäuschen,  _ and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lena parts her lips to argue but holds her tongue when Fareeha steps forward. Her amble is slow, unsure, uncharacteristic of the Amari, but it doesn’t last long. After placing herself between Lena and Angela, the chief stands at attention and zeroes in on the pilot; they both brace for impact.

“Angela and I are…  _ involved,  _ with one another.” Fareeha’s gaze shifts uneasily back to Angela, as if confirming her choice of words.

Lena glimpses a soft, meek smile accompanied by light blushes from the doctor, and can’t help but give a faint grin herself. The slight feeling of happiness she feels for the pair is replaced with the sense of betrayal from earlier. “Cheers to ya for not lettin’ me in on your dirty little secret earlier, mates.”

Fareeha casts her eyes away, clearing her throat with an uncomfortable grunt. The good doctor sidles up to her side, uneasily weaving her arms around the chief’s bicep in a reassuring hug. “She wanted to tell you first.”

“You’re spitting bollocks, Doc!” Lena barks, smiling with a malicious edge. The Brit throws her arms open, shaking her head as angry snickers leave her mouth. 

“Angela is telling the truth, Lena. I’ve always considered you as my family.”

Her molars scrap together to create a sound that would normally make her cringe, her nails cut into her palms so deeply, she’s sure she’s bleeding. She’s too exhausted to cry, but too brassed off to show no emotion. 

She makes to turn away from the two but the doctor has gotten down on her knees before her. A lithe grip finds its way to her hands, curling through the slats of her fingers as seaweed would a fishing hook. 

_ “Don’t.” _

She wants to fight it. The tone of voice, crestfallen yet endearing, pleading,  _ soft _ , the expression she knows she’ll find written across Angela’s face. Reluctantly, she brings her eyes to meet the medic’s. 

“I love her.”

Lena’s voice is subdued; it breaks on the word  _ love _ . She feels her heart drowning in anguish, Angela’s head is shaking and there’s crystalline tears forming at the apex of her cheeks. 

“You know how dangerous that is, you stupid girl,” Angela musters, giving the Brit a weak smile and even a shred of a chuckle through the tears, “But I trust you… as long as she does not harm you, I will see to it that I can care for her, to the best of my ability.”

Vibrant rage dissipates into delicate frailty; Lena falls into the doctor’s chest, burying her nose against her snowy collarbone. Tears don’t come, but the threat is still present and increasing as Angela embraces her. She’s grateful for the pressure, for this is the safest she’s felt since being admitted. She doesn’t think of the bleak future and the fucked-up road she knows she’ll walk, but she remembers she has a medic and a primal genius travelling alongside her. Whatever scrape she gains from the gravelled road, the good doctor is sure to heal, whatever mess they encounter, the ape will be able to engineer a solution.

As Angela pulls her tighter, Lena’s gaze raises to peer to Fareeha. She knows her expression is sorrowful, emitting the horrid feeling of deception. She catches a glimpse of the chief’s face twisting into a pained grimace before she hides her sadness back in Angela’s neck again. 

Lena isn’t sure if she’s strong enough to tackle that hill, no matter who walks beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got my muse back and as soon as i finished this chapter i started on the next so here ya go


	5. behind the pub in ten

Lena’s circumstances picked up, after that evening.

Angela began to check on Lena each morning and each night, no matter how drained she appeared. The Brit felt like a toddler as the medic sifted her fingers through her thick mess of hair,  _ tut-tutting  _ as she combed out the tangles.  _ “Take better care of yourself, Lena Oxton,”  _ She’d order with a bout of lighthearted laughter, before taking her leave to do the day’s work. 

Winston returned to steal her peanut butter sandwich lunches and play a round or two of checkers with her, which usually made the Brit feel better and more motivated. She could tell there was always something creeping around in his mind, and though her curiosity peaked on more than one instance, she refrained from prodding. 

With the good doctor’s permission, Lena was allowed out of her room to work out in the post’s athletic facility. She was decreasing her time around the track with every trip, building her legs to work as hard as they used to. Adventures to the weight room yielded plentiful social interaction and friendly competitions. Aleks and Rein were always showboating and attempting to one-up the other, but every so often they took time to offer Lena some advice on the weight machines. Instead of straight weights, she learned, it would be better for her to use resistance bands. “Helps your bones!” Aleks said, throwing a medicine ball (one that Lena  _ knows  _ weighs more than she does) to Rein. The knightly gentleman caught and tossed it back, as if it was little more than a shuttlecock.

Or a grape.

It was a late night. Lena had worked herself over without mercy and as a congratulations, she treated herself to a cold bath with  _ plenty  _ of Epsom Salts. 

Her muscles pulse with a dull ache as she ambles down the hallway. Once she gets to her room, key in hand, she finds the door hanging slightly ajar. With a raise of her eyebrow, she nudges the door open with her foot before poking her head in to inspect the scene. 

Winston waits on the edge of her cot, a near empty jar of peanut butter resting in his hind feet. His lips smack together with the enjoyment of his last bite. 

“Y’better not have gotten any of that on my sheets, luv.” She jokes, tossing her gym bag to the corner of the room. “I don’t want whoever washes my bedding to get the wrong idea.”

“Of course, of course.” Winston grumbles, screwing the lid back onto the jar. “I do have some important news.”

“By all means.”

With an unsure smile, he begins. “I believe you are well enough to commence rehabilitation with the Mark II.” He lowers his voice in the slightest. “The time to construct a plan is now. The Administration grows suspicious of the reason  _ why  _ you were present with a highly dangerous Talon operative. The more they analyze the photos taken on Commander Morrison’s visor, the more they suspect you were attempting to rescue her.”

“Thing is… that was my goal,” Lena cuts in, looking away from Winston. She brings a hand up to scrub through her hair in a flustered fashion. 

“They can’t discover that, Lena. It is crucial to your future as an Overwatch soldier… and  _ Amélie’s  _ safety,” The scientist cracks his knuckles, a signature display of agitation, huffing a sigh in thought. 

The Brit, after tapping her fingers against her chin, pads over to her bedside table, where a crumbled paper lies. “Winston, what was my first demand?”

“To be granted access to Amélie as soon as you were able to walk. That was my next bit of information. If you would only allow me to speak.”

Lena taps her foot impatiently, crossing her arms to keep from hitting Winston in the shoulder. “You will be able to see her soon, to speak to her, but her cell is still guarded and under watch, so I implore you to fight the urge to spew love out of your mouth and keep touching to a minimum. Speak with her… out of character, as one would say. Make  _ me _ believe that you were only trying to keep another life from being lost, even if it was that of your enemy.” Winston takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back.

“This initial encounter, if we are successful, will throw suspicion off of us for a small amount of time. She will be transferred to a lower security facility after a risk assessment. You will be able to see her with supervision, provided by either myself or Doctor Ziegler.”

“Will I be able to-”

“Yes, we will be sure your exchanges are confidential.” The ape adjusts his glasses and taps his finger against his jaw in thought. “During this period of peace, we will form a case to be taken to the Administration that paints your Amélie as a victim. Convincing our higher-ups will lessen her sentence…”

“She will be released as soon as I am checked out of treatment!” Lena brings her fist down on the bedside table, her fist straining with the tension of her muscles.

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“You agreed to it!”

The Brit whirls on her friend, anger vehemently written within her expression. Her mouth is an abrasive snarl that would force a lion away from a fight, her eyes reactive and explosive. 

“I did so for your health! You were something more than an emaciated corpse, I was surprised you were still breathing!”

“I trusted you.” Lena snaps back, taking a springing step forward, a mere inch from Winston’s face. “I trusted you, and you pulled wool over my eyes. I trusted you, and you lead me to the edge of a cliff!” 

“One must lie to protect the ones they love. Listen to me.”

“I’m done listening!”

Massive hands clap against her shoulders and she’s lifted from the ground. Lena attempts to squirm but she’s quickly met with hot, humid breath on her face and vibrant yellow eyes. “I said  _ listen to me. _ ”

Lena is stilled by the seriousness edging his tone, struck quiet by the growl of his voice. 

“You will watch. You will wait. You will do as I tell you. Where we presently stand, you have little to no knowledge of the outside. I am pulling as many strings as I can, pushing as many boundaries as my position will allow me, but they are so  _ close  _ to terminating me and sending me to an educational facility to study the brain of primates. I am  _ trying.  _ I am doing this for  _ you.  _ I implore that you stop being bull-headed and start using your brain, before you get all of us neck deep in our own waste.”

She hits the ground hard. Stunned, she looks at the scientist with her mouth in a small ‘o’. The yellow fades from his corneas, his panting fades. Winston gives her a single, stern look, before he makes his leave. 

As the door latch clicks closed, the pilot brushes herself off. She eyes the label of Winston’s favorite brand of peanut butter lying on the ground… He’d probably thrown it when she’d provoked him. With a slight shake of her head and a puff of agitated air, she gathers her wits and crawls to the jar. Her tailbone protests with a sharp stab of pain, drawing a high wince from the pilot.

_ For what it’s worth, Winston, I believe in you _

She sets the precious cargo on the top of her nightstand, next to the crumpled paper of her demands. 

“What in the Queen’s name…”

When she squints, she finds a small arrow pointing to the back of the paper. 

_ Come to think of it, I’d put the demands in my pillowcase for safe keeping… What is it doing on the bedside table? _

In a moment of curiosity, the Brit flipped over the page. It takes her a moment to analyze the scrawl, to little avail. Her forehead begins to cramp with the intensity of her deepening, frustrated scowl, her hands tighten on the paper near the threshold of tearing the material as she continues to read. As the message continues, the grinding of enamel forms goosebumps across her skin, but she can’t help the clench of her jaw and thus, the music it provides. 

Lena Oxton does not cater well to threats.

_ Especially  _ those directed towards Amélie Lacroix.

_ This jammy bastard would be right to naff off before they get their pecker in deep shite. If you want a brawl luv… well, meet me behind the pub in ten. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "meet me behind the pub in ten" is a phrase that popped into my head, i don't think it's necessarily British, but fuck if i know. It's Lena's way of saying "i'll take your challenge," i think that's what i was getting at.
> 
> stay tuned and thanks for reading~


	6. straighten up and think smart, oxton

Lena hates it. Inaction has never been her friend, nor will it ever be, and sitting,  _ waiting  _ is exactly that.  _ Inaction.  _ Her fingers tingle and fidget as she counts the seconds passing-one, two, three-and her mind runs rampant with every possibility, every suspect that could  _ dare  _ raise a harsh word against her Amélie. 

“This is a… peculiar development in this ever weaving web…” Winston sighs, rocking back on his haunches and reaching up to stroke his chin. Lena shoots a glare at the scientist, clearly catching the pun before he could nammer out an apology.

Despite the quarrel she’d had that previous night with Winston, he was one of the few she felt she could still trust in the post. The young pilot squeezes the fabric of her tactical pants anxiously, jittering her legs in an attempt to diffuse the tight feeling in her chest. It had been a full thirty minutes since she’d brought the damn note to Winston and fifteen since he’d called in Angela. 

“Could it be a Talon operative?”

“Talon would muscle in, this was rather… more discreet.” Angela hums gently, tapping her fingers against the table. “Someone else. Perhaps someone that wants to get close to you, Lena.”

The pilot raises an eyebrow, leaning over the table’s edge to further scrutinize the handwriting. “How do you figure?”

“This writing is positively… familiar. Not uncomfortably so, as a predator’s might be. Perhaps familial.”

The Oxton stiffens and stills, her shoulders rising in apprehension as the uncomfortable squeeze in her core shot to her throat. Untouchable blazes of memory swirl in her head at the thought of her  _ family.  _ First it’s her younger brothers climbing atop the counter to steal a bag of crisps, and her mother swiftly interjecting by swatting their arses with a broadhead spatula. Lena had been lounging smugly at the kitchen door at the time, arms crossed with a triumphant, gap-toothed smile taking up the majority of her small face. 

Nostalgia is quick to dissipate into outright sickness. A vivid remembrance of her father’s face, highlighted by his signature two-fingered salute overtakes her attention; precisely what she’s avoided since he’d left her life.

Thinking about her family always split open wounds that Lena had fought so hard to close. Brief shreds of phrases from her time in a children’s ward still drilled into her ears from time to time… Mostly botched advice meant to help her get through the trauma. In the end, Lena had resorted to saving face. 

A gentle, accented voice nudges back into her head, just as a soft touch comes to cup her cheek. Lena, sluggishly recognizing the concern upon her friends’ faces, wiggles her head to focus on the present. “Lena,  _ maus,  _ what is the matter?”

The Brit let the silence sit for but a split-second before she’d gathered the wit to speak again. “S’not possible. My family isn’t with us anymore. My mother and brothers were murdered. My father is dead.”

The last word falls in a flat tone. Her eyes stare, foggy and disassociated, at the paper on the tabletop.

Sensing not to press on the matter, Angela withdraws her hand, striding back to her place on the other side of the table. “I was as well, at one point.” She quips in a neutral voice. Lena’s eyes slide into focus and she shoots a glance at Winston, who seems just as startled as she is. Before either member can get out another word, the medic claps her hands together and continues briskly.. “I will have Chief Amari look into the security film in order to verify our mystery intruder’s identity, or at least their method of entry. If we eliminate routes of access, we can get a better handle on whom we’re looking for.”

Lena isn’t listening much anymore. Her thoughts are centered completely around Amélie and her wellbeing. The content of the note had left the pilot feeling sick to her stomach and anxious to see her lover. Images of the scenarios described in the message flicker between Lena’s broken thoughts. From the corner of her eye, she glimpses Winston giving her a solicitous glance as he spoke. Angela doesn’t seem to pick up on the pair’s unspoken conversation, but if she did, she wasn’t arsed to show it. Lena is grateful for the space; constant care, the kind she had been receiving since her hospital admittance, had grown suffocating. 

The medic picks the paper up from the table, folding it properly at its worn creases, and tucked it into her scrub coat pocket. “Lena, I request that you bring any further notes you come upon to Winston and I. The more we conclude from these writings, the closer we will get to finding the author themselves.” With a maternal expression of concern crossing her face, the good doctor rounds the table and presses a peck to Lena’s forehead. “Stay safe,  _ spätzchen. _ ” 

The phrase is murmured almost inaudibly as the healer reaches up to ruffle her friend’s hair. Lena nods in understanding before Angela turns to leave. “Remember to listen to Winston before you visit your Amélie. Try to not allow your emotions to take over, okay?”

“Alright, mum,” Lena groans, rocking back on her heels and shooting a glare at her smug, sniggering primal friend. Winston waits for the door to close behind his medically-oriented colleague.

When the latch clicks, Lena collapses into her chair, letting her head loll over its tall backing. “Cor blimey, I’m completely fuckin’ buggered.” She snuffles, flinging her arms out over the sides of her seat. The pilot stares at the luminescent bulbs above her, squinting her eyes at the sheer light. Her leg begins to bob again, her fingers drawing lazy shapes in the open air as she diverts her focus to other places. 

Winston clears his throat; the same way he does when Lena daydreams during an important mission. The Brit lifts her head, regarding the gorilla with a pout. “I was going to take a nap, mind you.”

“I do apologize, but there are other matters at hand. Fareeha wanted to give you a brief overview of visitation conduct, but... “ He raises an oafish hand to pick at his brow, eluding Lena’s easy gaze. “She has other business to attend to, at the moment. So I am standing in for her.”

_ Of course she does.  _

Lena fights off the urge to roll her eyes. The jittering in her leg spreads to the other, and soon she’s tapping out a quick beat with the heels of her shoes. “That’s right peachy. Lay ‘em on me, mate.” 

-~-~-

 

There’s a tightness in her chest that she remembers feeling when Amélie left the first time. Early on in their relationship, when the French woman was still tense and uneasy about Lena’s clear, blooming affections. It hurt, no doubt, but there was a stubborn hope burning within Lena that prohibited her from feeling dreadful for too long. Sure enough, her love came back.

It seems the pair found themselves in this situation again, drastically different yet all too familiar. Lena’s fingers flex in a distraught fashion; it takes all she has not to jitter her feet against the white tiles beneath her. 

The door she beholds is immense. Reinforced steel, the pilot notes, able to withstand Aleks’s particle cannon at maximum power, unyielding in the face of Winston’s primal rage. Why would they put such a gentle creature in such a stronghold? 

“Overkill,” Lena whispers to herself, taking a step toward the door. She draws in a breath, exhales shakily, and takes a look at the camera in the front left corner of the room.

“M’ready.”

Before the pardoning syllable leaves her tongue, Lena hears a  _ whisk _ , and chilled air blows into her face. Her hair strikes her cheeks with the force of the man made wind, and she can’t bite back her wince. The extra condition made clear in her mind now, Lena knows she won’t be able to handle the sight within the chamber. No amount of preparation could prepare her for it, and it was going to be mighty hard to tamp down on her love for the French woman. 

The second her eyes meet Amélie’s, she has to shove her hands deep into her jacket’s pockets to hide her trembling fists.

_ No amount of preparation. _

Amélie struggles weakly against her tempered iron bonds. Lena watches the muscles of her calves work with weak kicks, the tendons in her neck prominently protruding forward as Amélie fraily strains to lift her head. The pilot takes a restrained stride forward, her fists squeezing the leather inside of her pockets, she’s testing herself and she  _ knows  _ it but she can’t help but quicken her amble when she sees the dark hand like bruise on the side of her love’s face. Lena slows a moment too late, she can see how  _ tired  _ Amélie is and all that stops her from tearing out of the chamber, into the head office is the unspoken plea Amélie gives her of  _ ‘don’t, don’t, don’t.’  _

The freeze of the air bites at her cheeks and the tip of her button nose, and her initial action is to pull her jacket tighter around her, until she sees the slightest quiver of Amélie’s hands. It could be the weakness, the lack of clean water or proper food, and her rationality screams at her to  _ straighten up and think smart, Oxton _ . Even as she listens to Winston’s rules for visitation on repeat, she’s slipping her jacket off and leaning over the assassin, tucking the collar up to the jagged angle of Amélie’s chin, sure to brush the sleeve into the weak squeeze of her palm. 

She realizes her mistake, perhaps she was too tender, but now it was time to act. 

“You look like  _ shite _ , love.” 

Lena hardens her voice, disconnecting from her aching heart and her pleading soul, staring blankly at her fictional, would-be killer.  _ Make it believable. _

Amélie doesn’t crack a smile, her eyes drilling into Lena’s own say she understands,  _ they’re being watched. _

Lena slumps forward, puffing out a long drag of air. “Who’d want to kill ya, mate?”

Amélie doesn’t skip a beat in her reply, shifting her gaze to the ceiling. “ _ Mon dieu,  _ pest. Many people want my head. The real question is, why did you jump in front of the bullet?”

The steel mixture of unfamiliarity and harshness punches a heart-shaped hole in the Brit’s chest. With another puff, she bites back her tears.  _ She’s playing games, playing  _ their  _ games, she doesn’t mean it,  _ but that same stupid tone taunting her, calling her  _ pest  _ and  _ gnat  _ and a slew of other words that meant  _ annoying _ drives her insane. 

Lena reminds herself that Amélie knows this. The assassin is looking to get a rise out of her. A rise that HOA would see as normal of a spat between two strangers.

Her silence registers, how it may seem shifty by the attendants analyzing their interaction. She gathers what little saliva she has in her throat before dodging Améli- no,  _ Widowmaker’s  _ question. “Overwatch didn’t hire someone to dispatch you, did they?”

“ _ Je ne sais pas,  _ I do not know. It could have been one of your seasoned Egyptian  _ chiennes, ch _ é _ rie _ .” 

She wants to yell, but the fisted grip on her pocket lining grows tighter instead (so tight her knuckles are surely whiter than powder fresh upon King’s Row); the pilot reassures herself that she’ll get the chance to cuss her lover out later for using that damned nickname.

“Chief Amari was on call here in the post, Commander Amari wasn’t within range. I’ll take your answer as a no.”

Widow’s eyes slide slowly over to meet Lena’s.  

Bile rises in the back of her throat, she looks just askance of those light, enamoring irises. “I didn’t jump in front of the shot because I like you.”

She regrets the words as soon as they leave her. Faint graying bruises peek up over the collar of Widow’s fatigues and strike Lena like a slap in the face.  _ I do like her. I love her, I love her.  _

“I did it to prevent death.” Her teeth grind against their opposites, hard enough to emit heat from the friction and angry enough to make her entire body cringe. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again as syllables squeak past her lips. Lena isn’t sure if she’s acting anymore. “I’m sick of this fight. As cruel as you are, as fruitless and hateful as Talon is, I wish death upon no one.”

Her hands have come away from the cover of her pockets. She takes a breath, two, before she snaps away from Amélie. “I’m finished here.”

_ I can’t bear to look at her any longer. Not like this, no, not like this. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been too long my loves, but I live, and i've got a bit of muse


End file.
